Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler
by navigatio
Summary: John is bleeding out, Sherlock is freaking out, and Donovan is a more than a bit put out with her new role of Freak Wrangler. Last chapter up, complete
1. I take a leisurely walk

Author's note: I have tried to capture Donovan's voice in this story, but I probably made a complete mess of it. The only Cockney I know is "Did yew see thot lewdicris displae lost noight?" (Have you seen I.T Crowd? If not, GO SEE IT RIGHT NOW!). So I did my best. If you see any egregious errors, let me know using your kindest words.

Disclaimer: All is disclaimed

Warning: Donovan has a bit of a potty-mouth. This is not my fault. ;-)

* * *

Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler

Ch. 1: I take a nice leisurely walk

* * *

Just before we arrived at the latest scene, Lestrade gave me the news: he had called in the Freak. Dammit. "Third one in three days," he said briskly. "We got nothing to go on. This one's fresh."

I huffed and sat back in my seat, arms crossed. To say I was annoyed wouldn't even get close. "We just need more time. It takes time to analyze evidence, Greg!"

"Time we don't have. Now be nice!" he warned me as he clambered out of the car. I fumbled with my seatbelt and scrambled to follow.

"Why should I?" I asked, hurrying to catch up with his longer stride. "He's not nice, and you don't say that to him."

"He's got John to say it to him; he doesn't need it from me." Lestrade stepped up his pace to get ahead of me.

"John needs a hobby," I muttered to nobody. "Something quiet and peaceful. Maybe snorkeling. . ."

I could feel my eyebrows tugging down in the middle, so I leaned down to a side mirror of a patrol car and practiced a few neutral faces. No scowling, no expression. Nothing for the Freak to latch onto. I sniffed my clothes for residue from Anderson's deodorant or soap. Didn't smell anything. Gotta have a full suit of armor on, no cracks that he could dig his claws into.

By the time I ducked around the uniforms stringing the crime scene tape and setting up the floodlights, a cab was already pulling up. The Freak ejected himself almost before it came to a stop, with John struggling along behind him. The Freak ignored me, but John nodded at me politely. What was a nice guy like him doing with a freak like that? It wasn't the first time I had wondered that. I'd give even money they were shagging.

The glee on the Freak's face was. . .indecent. He strode over to the body like he belonged there, coat all swirly, collar turned up, hair blowing in the wind. I'm sure he was going for mysterious, but it came across as idiotic. He crouched down with his magnifying glass out and looked the body over. I could see enough from where I was standing by John to make a few preliminary impressions: male, medium build, mid-thirties, casually dressed in jeans and a tan canvas jacket over a hideous striped shirt. Beat to hell. Lestrade's torch illuminated a pool of dark blood spreading on the wet concrete beneath his bashed-in skull.

The Freak leaned in, nose practically against the dead man's neck. He reached out and touched what was left of his cheek, the only spot that wasn't covered in blood. "Still warm," I heard him say.

"Yeah, not been dead long. We only got the call about 15 minutes ago," Lestrade replied.

Holmes took the torch from Lestrade's hand and swung around in a slow clockwise arc, then back toward the northwest and stopped. "This way," he snapped out, and took off without further warning, aiming the torch at the ground in front of him.

John made a face and took off running toward Holmes' receding back. "Golfing!" I yelled after him. "Nice leisurely walk, no running!" The sound of his laughter floated toward me as he ran out of sight after Holmes. I loved that sound. Made the Freak's presence almost bearable. Almost.

"Shit!" Lestrade shouted. "Donovan, what are you waiting for? Get after them!"

"Why bother? He doesn't know where he's going!" I snapped back.

"Just go! For Christ's sake. . ." He started barking orders into his walkie, so I gathered a couple of uniforms and took off in the direction John and the Freak had gone, splashing through puddles across the parking lot and between two dark buildings.

We quickly came to a T-intersection, and I had no idea which direction they had gone. I pulled out my phone and dialed John's number. No answer. Shit. I sent him a quick text.

**Where the fuck are you?**

Again, no response. Of course not, he was running as fast as his little legs could carry him trying to keep up. I swung my torch along the ground. Big puddle, and then-Footprints! "This way," I shouted to the uniforms, and we took off to the left.

Three intersections later, I had run out of clues. I had no idea which way they had gone. Shit, shit, shit! Why did Holmes keep _doing_ this to us?

I bent over at the waist, trying to catch my breath, and for a few minutes all I could hear was my crew breathing. The uniform on my left sounded like he was having an asthma attack. And then, something else—a scuffle, shoes scraping on concrete. Thumps. A thud. But which way was it coming from? I swung my torch left and right, trying to locate the source of the sound.

Suddenly, a gunshot echoed down the alleyway, and time stood still. If that bloody moron had gotten himself shot. . . "Oy, Police!" I shouted.

The gunshot had come from the right. At least I thought so. It was echoing so much I couldn't be sure. After the echoes died out, I heard the sound of footsteps running away. Definitely to the right. I gestured to my team to follow and took off in that direction. If someone was shot, please have it be Holmes and not John. Please, if there were a God, it should be Holmes lying there bleeding on the concrete and not John.

I came flying around the corner of a building and my torch illuminated Holmes, kneeling on the concrete with his back to me, fumbling with something on the ground. Some kind of bundle.

"Donovan, help me," he ordered without turning around. What the hell? Help him with what? And where was John? I swung my torch down toward the ground, and quickly realized that the bundle on the ground _was_ John. His jumper was rucked up, a strip of pale belly showing, and Holmes had a wad of fabric-his scarf-pressed against his side. Bright red blood everywhere. On John, on the ground, saturating the scarf and oozing through Holmes' fingers. Oh, God, not John. Not John.

The uniforms who had been with me took off in the direction we had been heading, while I hit my knees next to Holmes on the concrete, phone already in my hand, my fingers automatically dialing 999.

"999. Which emergency service do you require?"

"This is Sergeant Donovan, Metropolitan Police. I have a civilian, male, age late-thirties, with a GSW to the abdomen. I need an ambulance at. . ." I trailed off. I had no idea where we were. "Just a moment. Holmes, where the hell are we?"

"Alleyway behind 11 Wren Street," he replied immediately, eyes fixed on John's face. "Come on, John, keep breathing."

"I've got your location. Ambulance is being dispatched. Would you like to stay on the line?"

"No, please hurry. He's bleeding heavily." I rang off and dialed Lestrade, distractedly gave him the details. He was already on his way to our location. I hoped he could intercept the ambulance and made sure it found us. After all the twists and turns we took getting here, I didn't see how the Freak could be so sure of our exact location. Of course, they could track my phone, but that would only get them in the neighborhood.

I jammed my phone in my pocket and checked John's pulse with shaking fingers. It was there, but thready, too fast. I put my ear down by his mouth and heard him take a raspy breath.

"Hey, John, you awake?" I asked, patting him on the cheek. His eyelids fluttered open and his back arched in pain. He let out a moan that trailed off into a whimper.

I put my hand on his forehead, stroked back his hair. "It's ok, John," I said quietly. "It's ok. Try to relax. Help's on the way."

He mumbled something that I didn't quite catch. "What was that?" I asked, leaning in closer."

"I think—I think I'll take up golfing," he whispered, eyes sliding shut again.

I chuckled, but the laugh quickly faded away when his raspy breathing stuttered and then stopped altogether. Shit!

"John? John!" I cried. "Stay with me! Hey, wake up!" There was no response. I tipped his head back and put my ear by his mouth, eyes on his chest watching for movement. Nothing.

* * *

To Be Continued, obviously.


	2. Earl Grey and Toothpaste

Warning: Donovan has a bit of a potty-mouth. This is not my fault.

Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler

Chapter 2: Earl Grey and Toothpaste

Holmes' blood-covered hand came up and pressed against John's neck. "Got a pulse." His voice was clipped, anxious.

I pinched John's nose shut, put my mouth over his, and breathed four quick breaths out of me and into him, turning my head to watch his chest fall after each one. After the fourth breath, I waited, but he didn't keep breathing on his own, so I continued for him. In, out, in, out, trying to keep a consistent rhythm. John tasted like Earl Grey and toothpaste.

Holmes had one hand pressed to John's belly, and with the other he checked repeatedly for a pulse. I didn't pay any attention to him. It was his fault John was lying here bleeding instead of home drinking tea.

An eternity later I heard noises behind me, scuffing shoes, a shout of "This way!" and then a paramedic in a blue shirt came into my field of view.

"Ma'am? I can take over for you." He had an artificial respirator in his hand. After one last breath, I backed away, wiping my mouth with the back of my trembling hand, and he quickly got to work.

Another paramedic knelt across from Holmes, gloved hand out, ready to take over. "Ok, sir, you can step back now," she said.

The Freak shook his head mutely and stayed put, his hand still pressing the blood-soaked scarf hard to John's side. Lestrade appeared out of nowhere, leaned over him, hand on his shoulder, and said something quietly into his ear. He finally sat back on his heels, breathing hard, and let the paramedic slide her hand in where his had been. Another paramedic was already kneeling in my spot, checking John's pulse, and a fourth was standing behind Holmes, waiting for him to move so she could start an IV.

Lestrade, arm still around Holmes' shoulders, looked around wildly and spotted me. He silently jerked his head in my direction. Even without words, the implication was clear: Donovan, get him out of the way. I pressed my lips together and shook my head tightly. No way was I taking responsibility for the Freak.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes and repeated the gesture, and I caved with a small sigh. I didn't want John to die because Holmes wouldn't get the fuck out of the way.

"Come on, Freak, let them do their job."

Holmes squinted at me. He looked a little lost. I didn't want to have any sympathy for Holmes, but that lost look got to me a bit. The expression seemed so odd on his face, so unlike his usual scowl.

"I'll—I'll take you to the hospital."

Holmes finally clambered to his feet and backed away, eyes never leaving John's still form on the ground. The paramedic immediately knelt in his place and began pushing up John's sleeve for the IV. Lestrade flipped me his keys.

"Take my squad car." He made a vague gesture toward where his car was presumably parked before turning his attention back to his walkie.

I caught the keys and grabbed for Holmes' arm, but he shook my hand off and strode away, looking a bit unsteady on his feet. I hustled to catch up with him. "Hey, you ok?"

"Why would you care?" I opened my mouth to snap back at him, but he was staring at the paramedics, the usual vitriol absent from his voice. Maybe it was an honest question? Only Sherlock Holmes could tell a man's occupation from his left thumb, but wouldn't be able to understand why a person would actually care about another person's well-being. Living with John apparently hadn't rubbed off on him at all.

I sighed and rubbed my face with my hand. "Come on, Holmes, let's get your statement—" oh, God, that was going to be an ordeal—"and go to hospital."

"No, I need to stay with John."

"Where do you think they're taking him?" I was trying to keep my tone reasonable, but it was taking a super-human effort to stop myself from snapping at him.

He dithered in the alley for a minute, like he didn't know what to do. When I had finally had enough, I grabbed his coat lapel and towed him around the corner to Lestrade's squad car, where I sat him down on the boot.

"Make yourself useful," I said brusquely, digging out my notebook and a stub of a pencil. "Tell me what happened." I flipped open the notebook and waited expectantly for him to go off into one of his "deductions".

No response.

"Hey, Freak-" I began, looking up from my notebook. In the light from the streetlamp, I noticed something I hadn't seen before—there was a lot of blood on his face. Where was it coming from? Could he have gotten that much of John's blood on his face?

I flicked on my torch and aimed it into his face, and he flinched away from the light. Oh, he was hurt. Beneath the blood, I could see bruises on his cheek and jaw. Swollen lip. The blood was coming from a gash above his left eye. So that explained the scuffle and thumping I had heard before the shot. I aimed the torch into his eyes and he shied away, screwing his eyes shut. Concussed, probably. Shit.

"Stay put." Leaving him sit on the boot, I went around to the side of the car and hauled the first aid kit out from under the front seat. I needed to take a better look at that gash on the side of his head. It probably needed stitches, but I really wanted a statement from him before I let the doctors get their hands on him. I shuddered at the idea of "getting a statement" from the Freak. It was nearly impossible to sort out the fact from the conjecture with anything he came up with. And if he was concussed, well—all bets were off.

I pulled on gloves—didn't want to touch his blood with my bare hands. He used to be a druggie; who knew what he had picked up. I squirted some purified water on a piece of gauze and leaned in to wipe away some of the blood from his forehead. His nose wrinkled up in disgust.

"You smell like Anderson," he sneered.

I paused and just looked at him through narrowed eyes. What a total twat. Finally I shook my head and said quietly, "I don't know what he sees in you." I took another swipe at the gash, a little harder than absolutely necessary.

Holmes flinched like I had hit him. His eyes slid away, back toward the dark alleyway where John was bleeding out on the pavement. "Nor do I." His voice was very quiet and his lower lip looked a bit wobbly. I realized that was probably the only true thing he had ever said to me. Ouch.

"Low blow, sorry. Truce." I muttered. There was a spot of something darker on his forehead, some kind of grease. I pulled out a swab from the kit and took a sample. Looked and smelled like gun oil. Another spot of the same stuff adorned his jawline under his chin. So he had had a gun to his head at some point during the struggle. That gash on his head could have been made with the butt of a pistol.

"Look straight ahead," I said, because his eyes kept sliding to the left, watching the alleyway. I swung the torch up at his left eye, watching for the pupil to change in the right, but it was impossible to tell because he kept looking away.

"Dammit." I grabbed his chin and made him hold still. "Look at me!" His gaze snapped around like he had just remembered I was there. Before he could look away again, I swung the torch up to his right eye and watched for the pupil to respond in the left. Reactive, but sluggish. A concussion was highly likely. And the way the gash was gaping, it needed stitches.

I put the torch away, took out my phone and started taking pictures, of the cut on his head, the bruises along his jaw, the scrape on his cheek that had bits of gravel stuck in it. I collected a sample of the particles from the scrape.

"Ok, hands out." I ordered, and he complied. Both palms were scraped up, hands covered in blood, definitely mostly John's. His hands were shaking, just a fine tremor. I squirted water to wash off the blood and took a picture, then turned his hands over and snapped photos of his scuffed knuckles. So he had fought back.

A bit of his left wrist was visible for a second and I caught a glimpse of dark purple bruises. When I grabbed his hand to push the sleeve up, he took a quick breath, not exactly a gasp, but enough to let me know it hurt. There were bruises like grapes encircling his wrist, looked like fingermarks. Someone with big hands, long fingers. From the angle, I would say his wrist had been twisted behind his back. It would take a lot of force to make bruises that deep. I snapped another picture.

I swung the torch down and discovered that the knees of his trousers were muddy and torn, possibly from when he was working on John, but again, it would take quite a bit of force to tear his expensive trousers. I had been on my knees too, and while I was muddy, my trouser legs were intact. So, shoved to his knees then?

Ok, enough deductions of my own, it was time to hear what he had to say. I pulled out my notebook and pencil again. "Ok, Freak, what happened?"

He didn't answer. When I looked up at his face, he was watching the alleyway with a lost expression.

"Hey, Fr—Holmes? You with me? I need a statement."

"Oh, right. Um—there were three of them, no four, wait, three. We were running down the alley behind Pakenham street and then took a left on—no a right first, and then a left—." He was talking very fast.

"Whoa, whoa, I can't write that fast. Wait a minute. . ." I put away my notebook and pulled out my phone, opened the voice recorder app. "I already know where you were. Start by telling me how you knew which way to go."

"Blood spatter by the victim. Shoeprints, sizes 11, 9, and um—13, no—12. Maybe. Russian make. Knew they were close. Which way would they go? Scent of motor oil, cheap cologne, and uh—chocolate? I guess it was chocolate. Chop shop on corner of Wren and Gough. The victim worked there, his attackers did too.

"Hold up a minute. Chop shop? How do you know about that?"

"It's where all the high end stolen cars have been going recently."

I just looked at him blankly.

"Lamborghini, two Bugati Veyrons, Ferrari, and a vintage Corvette? How do you not know about that?"

"Not my department."

"It was on the news!" He shook his head, and then winced. "Never mind. They didn't have much of a headstart. I went after them. Took a shortcut. John was right behind me. Um—Oh, shortcut, yeah. Stopped to listen for them, but John was breathing too hard. Couldn't hear anything. We came around a corner, brick building, graffiti on it, local gang, shaped like-but that's not—oh, that's not important. Never mind. Um—We surprised them. John pulled out his gun, but they all had guns. The one with size 11 feet put his gun to my head. Colt 380 Mustang. Small but deadly. Silver with black on the grip. Oh, maybe that's not important either. Um—John dropped his gun. Size 13 pushed me down to my knees and twisted my arm up behind my back. I could feel the bones snap. The smallest man picked up John's gun and put it in his waistband, in the front; stupid move—oh, right, not important. Pushed John on his knees too."

Holmes' explanation was even more convoluted and confusing than typical. Thank God for voice recorders. "Describe them."

"Yeah, they were all Ukranian—"

"Not Russian? I thought you said the shoes were Russian."

"The shoes were, but they were Ukranian. Their shirt collars were wrong, too pointy."

"Ok. Whatever. Go on"

"The first one was 6'3", almost 18 stone, size 13 feet, black boots. Blond hair in a buzz cut. Vertical scar beside his right eye. Tattoo of a lightning bolt on his neck. No, wait, that was the second one. The second one had the lightning bolt. 5'11, 16 stone, size 11 feet, brown lace-ups. Um—tattoo on his neck. . ."

"You already told me about the tattoo."

"No I didn't."

"Lightning bolt?"

"Oh. Right. So—hair color reddish brown. Pony tail. Dirty hands, engine grease. Looked like he bit his fingernails. Third one was shorter, maybe 5'6", size 9 feet, filthy trainers that used to be white, short blond hair parted to the left side, mole beneath his left eye, something brown on his hands, maybe mud? Or chocolate. I couldn't tell. Um—the other one was tall, 6;3, 18 stone—"

"Wait a minute, I thought there were only three."

"There were. Do try to keep up."

"You already told me about that one."

"No, I'm telling you about him now."

"Blond buzz cut? Scar by his eye?"

Holmes squinted at me.

"Yeah, you already told me about him. Honestly. What happened next?"

"Oh. I tried to get away. I flipped the one holding me over onto his back—"

"You flipped him over your shoulder? A man weighing 18 stone?"

He scowled at me. "It's physics," he muttered. "A simple matter of leverage. . ."

"Ok, never mind." I interrupted. "What happened next?"

"The one with the ponytail hit me with his gun—no, it was a piece of rebar. Maybe, not sure. Not important, right? I think—I'm not sure what happened next. I think I blacked out because next I knew I was on the ground and they were kicking me. Oh, that was the bit with the rebar. Hit me in the ribs. There was a scuffle, I saw John trying to get the gun away from the shortest one, there was blood in my eyes so I couldn't see much. There was a shot and a thud, then I heard you yell. They all took off and I got up. John didn't. You know the rest, right? Did I leave anything out?"

"Ok, that's good enough for now. Let's go to Barts." I snapped off the recorder and opened the front passenger door. He didn't move, so I took his arm and put him in the car, hand on his head to keep him from giving himself any more brain damage. As I circled around to the driver's seat, I texted Lestrade.

**Update**?

The response came as I was buckling my seatbelt. _Still working on stabilizing him._

**Holmes is hurt. Taking him to Barts.**

_How bad?_

**Scuffed up a bit. Knock on the head. Making slightly less sense than usual.**

Holmes said nothing all the way to St. Barts. I was afraid he was going to start crying, but he just sat there stone-faced. When we were parked by A&E, he carried on staring straight ahead and didn't even try to get out of the car.

"Freak! Hey, Holmes!"

He jerked his head up like I had woken him up. "What?"

"We're here. You gonna walk inside yourself or am I gonna have to carry you?"

"God forbid," he muttered, hauling himself out of his seat. I took off across the carpark without waiting for him.

Inside A&E, I spotted Teresa, the triage nurse, working at the intake desk. She and I knew each other from previous cases and I felt comfortable with her. Big and solid, she wasn't the type who would put up with any shit from Holmes.

"Hi, Sally," she greeted me with a warm smile.

"Hi, Teresa, this is Sherlock Holmes. He needs his head stitched up, possible concussion too." Maybe they could examine the inside of his head as well. If only.

Teresa's smile widened. "Oh, Sherlock, yeah, we know him." She raised her voice a little to carry across the room to where Holmes was standing by the entrance. "Haven't seen you in a while, Sherlock. Go ahead and have a seat, Love." Her voice was gentle, reassuring. "I'll call Dr. Cordella down. She's with a patient just now." She waved to the chairs, and he dropped into one with a grunt of acknowledgement, elbows on knees, head in his hands.

Teresa turned back to me and mouthed "Frequent flier," giving me a knowing wink.

Huh. Frequent flier? Not too surprising, I guess. I wouldn't exactly call him accident-prone, not really. More like. . . reckless and self-destructive.

Just as I sat down in a chair on the other side of the room, my mobile buzzed. Lestrade.

_They're bringing him in._

**How is he?**

_Hanging in there._

**Find the perps?**

_Nothing yet._

**Holmes says there's a chop shop on Wren and Gough street. He thinks that's where they're going.**

Holmes kept his head down until the ambulance pulled up outside, flashing red lights reflecting off the walls and ceiling of the sterile white waiting room. We both silently stared at the doors until they swung open, and the paramedics pushed the gurney in at a fast walk. One paramedic was straddling John, doing chest compressions, while another pumped air into him with the artificial respirator. Shit. This was bad.


	3. A Snake eating a Mouse

Warning: Donovan has a bit of a potty-mouth. I refuse to be held responsible.

* * *

Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler

Ch 3: A snake eating a mouse

* * *

Across the room from me, Holmes was on his feet, staring at the motionless form on the gurney with wide, haunted eyes. He took two steps toward it and then stopped dead. I hustled over to the last paramedic, tall with unruly ginger hair, who was trailing behind filling out paperwork on a clipboard. I introduced myself and he shook my hand distractedly and said his name was Adam. The rest of his team disappeared through the double doors with John.

"Do you know if he has family?" he asked me.

"Um, I don't know." I turned. "Holmes! Come over here."

"He has a sister. Her number is in his phone," Holmes said on his way over, before I could even repeat the question. Damn, how did he do that? "I can sign the paperwork." He held out his hand and the paramedic put the clipboard into it.

"Just give it to Teresa when you've got it filled out," the paramedic said, already heading off after his team.

Holmes wandered off back unsteadily toward his seat with the clipboard, muttering to himself. I followed him.

"Sit down, Holmes, before you fall down," I said, not taking the effort to hide the irritation in my voice. When he didn't respond, I took his elbow and steered him to the nearest seat. He dropped into it without comment and continued squinting at the clipboard, rubbing his eyes with his right hand.

After a moment, he shoved the clipboard at me. "Just point to where I should sign," he ordered.

"Why can't you do it?" I snapped back. I didn't like to be ordered around, especially by the Freak.

"Because," he growled, pinching the bridge of his nose, "my head is bloody killing me. So just. . . please help me out." That last bit was said quietly. I swallowed the retort that sprang to my lips and took the clipboard.

"I need John's height and weight."

171 cm*; 13 stone, five pounds," he responded promptly. He knew John's exact height and weight? Bizarre. But so typical Holmes.

"Birthdate?"

"28 September, 1971."

"You wouldn't happen to know his NI number?"

Of course he did. He quickly rattled it off, and I was so surprised I had to have him repeat it three times before I was able to get it written down.

"Are you sure you aren't the one with the head injury?" he groused. I couldn't help but snicker.

"Yours definitely doesn't seem to have affected your memory," I said with a grin. "Next of kin?"

"Put my information down."

"What about his sister?"

"They don't get on."

I stared at him for a moment. "What's his sister's name?"

"It doesn't matter. Just put my number. Please."

"Hm. Ok, fine." Since he said please. I put Holmes' name and number in the Next of Kin spot, then added mine as emergency contact.

I had just had him sign the form when Dr. Cordella came out, carrying a fat file folder. I remembered her from a previous time I had brought in a victim, a young woman who had been beaten bloody by an ex-boyfriend. Dr. Cordella had struck me as more than competent—she had a caring, understanding manner that had reassured the terrified victim and helped her find the confidence to press charges against her attacker.

Holmes obviously knew her, because he stood up expectantly when she came in. I stood up too.

"Hi, Sherlock, good to see you," she said gently, like she was talking to a kid. He nodded at her. Then the doctor turned to me with a smile. "Sergeant Donovan. Good to see you too."

In the treatment room Dr. Cordella took Holmes' coat off and told him sit on the exam table, which he did without his usual fuss. "We haven't seen you around here for a while, Sherlock. I figure either things are going better, or you're cheating on me with another doctor."

She was clearly teasing him, but surprisingly he didn't seem to mind. "A little of both," he said with a half-smile.

Dr. Cordella pulled out her penlight and checked his pupils, more smoothly than I had. "Are you living alone?"

"No, I have a flatmate."

She probed his bruised cheekbone with her thumb. "Do you feel safe at home?"

The smile dropped and he shot an uncertain glance at me. "Yeah, I'm safe. I'm fine."

"So what happened here?"

Holmes looked like he was about to launch into an explanation, but then he let out a breath and shrugged. "Got jumped," he said quietly.

Dr. Cordella's eyebrows climbed. "Oh? We've talked before about staying out of dark alleys, Love. All right, let's get that shirt off."

Holmes gave me the side-eye, but I just folded my arms and stared back at him. No way was I leaving. This was way too good.

When his shirt came off, I was shocked by the condition of his shoulders and torso. Black and blue marks everywhere; obvious bootprints on his ribs, both front and back; long narrow bruises criss-crossed his chest from the rebar. Good grief. I came to the grisly conclusion that if I had been just a few seconds later, Holmes would have been victim number four to be beat to death by this gang.

I pulled out my phone and started snapping pictures of the damage, trying to stay out of Dr. Cordella's way as she gently probed his injuries. Holmes just stared at the wall with a scowl on his face throughout.

"Ok, you've definitely got a concussion. I'll have a nurse take you up to x-ray. I'd like to see some pictures of those ribs and your left wrist. After you get back, I'll stitch up that gash on your head."

She handed Holmes a folded gown and walked out. He sat there scowling at the gown as if it had personally offended him.

"Aren't you going to put that on?" I prompted. He ignored me, but finally started fumbling with it, one-handed.

After several minutes of watching him awkwardly attempt to unfold the gown, I said in exasperation, "Oh, for pity's sake, give that to me!" I snatched it out of his hand, shook it open, and handed it back to him. He glared at me, but still put it on and even let me tie it. I didn't understand why it would hurt him so much to admit he needed help. I didn't even tie it too tight and strangle him or anything, although I can't say I wasn't tempted.

A petite nurse with "Ginny" written in marker on her nametag arrived to take Holmes up to x-ray. He immediately refused to sit in the wheelchair she had brought with her. I gave her a sympathetic smile as she followed him down the corridor, arms out as if she could catch him if he fell. Ha. He'd probably squish her like a grape if she tried it.

I was headed toward the chairs when the ginger-haired paramedic, Adam, came back through. When he saw me, he changed course and came over, holding out a mobile phone.

"Sergeant Donovan? This is Dr. Watson's phone. Do you know his sister's name?"

I shook my head as I took the phone. "I can try to figure it out, thanks. How is he doing?"

"We got a pulse back but he wasn't breathing on his own. They're prepping him for surgery now."

He left, and I sat down with John's mobile, quickly hacked the security code (1234? Really, John?), and thumbed through the contacts, hoping to find someone with the last name of Watson, but most of the contacts were first name only. There were only two speed dial entries: Holmes and Lestrade. Whoever his sister was, they must not have been close. We had been out to the pub as a group many times, but I had never heard him even mention a sister.

I tapped the screen and looked over the received calls list. There were four missed calls from someone called "Harry" in the last week. John hadn't returned any of the calls. Maybe that was her. I took a quick glance through the texts she had sent him, feeling like a voyeur, and right away found one from the previous night that started, "Hey, baby bro!" followed by incoherent rambling, full of shorthand and typos. John hadn't responded to that one, or to any of the ten previous similar texts. Feeling a little guilty for snooping, I quickly copied down the number and shut off the phone.

I gave Teresa the name and number. If John's sister was going to get a call in the middle of the night, it would be better coming from Teresa than from me. I didn't have a lot of patience for people who wrote LOL and WTF in texts, or who repeatedly misused "your" and "you're."

The mobile was smudged with dried blood, and I absently scraped it off with my thumbnail. There was a growing lump of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. It was encouraging that they got a pulse back, I guess, but I still didn't have much hope. And if John died, it would be Holmes' fault. Holmes' arrogance was going to cost John his life. Dammit.

Finally Ginny brought Holmes back, riding in the wheelchair. I suppressed a smirk at the look of grim triumph on the nurse's thin face. You go, girl.

"Good boy," I said smugly. He started to roll his eyes at me, but halfway through he stopped with a wince.

"X-ray tech insisted. I've no idea why."

"Because you almost fell down, remember?" Ginny responded in an overly patient tone. Holmes flipped his hand at her dismissively.

When I followed them back into the exam room, Holmes scowled at me. I just cocked my eyebrow at him. No way was I going to miss the opportunity to watch him get stitched up. Maybe I'd even film it. It was no more or less than he deserved.

Still scowling, Holmes lay back on the exam table with his right forearm over his eyes, one knee bent, the other foot dangling off the end of the table. His left arm he folded over his stomach, shifting positions several times in an obvious attempt to get comfortable.

"Dr. Cordella will be back in a few minutes." Ginny shoved the x-rays into the light box and walked out with a conspiratorial wink at me.

"I saw that," Holmes growled (although I didn't see how he possibly could have). "And I didn't almost fall down. I was fine." But his rant was in vain because she was already out the door and I wasn't listening.

I flicked off half the lights in the room, because despite his protestations of being "fine", the brightness was clearly bothering his eyes; and wandered over to the light box to check out the x-rays. Inspecting the film of his wrist, I could see there was a faint diagonal line across the lower ulna, a thin jagged break in the white space that defined the bone. So his wrist was definitely fractured, but it didn't look too serious.

Then something else caught my eye. Just above the current fracture, there was another change in the uniformity of the bone, a slight thickening, like a snake eating a mouse. The bone showed up slightly whiter in that spot. I leaned in closer, tracing the bone upward toward the elbow, and discovered several similar thicker areas on both bones of the forearm. Those spots. . . I shot a glance at the man on the bed, but he still had his arm over his eyes and was apparently ignoring me. Not that I bought it. I was sure he knew exactly what I was doing and probably even what I was thinking.

Frowning, I turned my attention to the pictures of Holmes' ribs. There were two x-rays, one taken from the front and one from the back, jammed side by side in the light box. On these, I could spot no current fractures, but when I looked closely at the x-ray of his back, I found three ribs in a row with noticeable thicker spots, all lined up in a vertical column. I ran my finger lightly down the line of marks.

Holmes' voice startled me. "Donovan?"

I jumped and dropped my hand quickly, like a child caught stealing cookies. "What?"

"Could you please. . . leave?"

"Yeah, ok." I slunk out without saying anything about what I suspected, about what those marks on his bones had told me.

* * *

TBC. . .

* * *

*I've been trying to figure out if the British would use the Metric system for height, and I can't find a straight answer. It appears that the metric system is typically used by doctors, and anything coming from the government, but ordinary people still mostly use Imperial measurement. I decided to have Holmes use Metric, because he is a scientist, sort of.


	4. I don't have an Iguaner

Warning: Donovan continues to swear like a sailor. No likey, No read-y.

* * *

Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler

Ch 4: I don't have an Iguaner

* * *

After I emailed Lestrade a summary of Holmes' suspect descriptions, I played Candy Crush for a while in the waiting room, trying not to think about John dying on the operating table, and after I ran out of lives, I messed about with Facebook and Twitter, wasting time.

It was almost an hour later that Holmes finally emerged, under his own power this time, although with Dr. Cordella's hand wrapped firmly around his bicep. He was wearing a blue scrubs top under his coat; there was a splint on his wrist and a fine line of stitches above his left eyebrow.

"All right, Sergeant Donovan, he's all yours," Dr. Cordella said in a business-like tone.

"Um, aren't you going to admit him? With a concussion and all. . ."

"Oh, no need. He just needs rest and monitoring."

"Monitoring?" I parroted faintly. Shit! I was going to have to "monitor" him? No fucking way was that happening.

"Just for the next twelve hours. Wake him every two hours and check for alertness." She held out a white paper bag. "He can take four Ibuprofen in six hours. Nothing stronger. Ice if he needs it."

I took the bag with a grimace. "Thanks, Dr. Cordella." It wasn't her fault I was saddled with the Freak.

She smiled at Holmes. "Now, you need to leave the splint on this time, understand? It won't heal properly if it's moving all about, remember?"

"Yes, I remember," he grumbled, and Dr. Cordella patted him on the arm and walked out. I turned my back on Holmes and headed toward the door, texting Lestrade as I went.

**Dr. is sending Holmes home. He needs monitoring.**

When I got to the door, I realized Holmes wasn't following me. "Hey, Freak, let's go," I ordered him.

My phone buzzed. Lestrade.

_Ok, fine._

**Fine?** I texted back. **Can you find someone to stay with him?**

"No, I want to stay here." Holmes' arms were folded and I'm sure he meant to sound firm and confident, but with the splint and bruises and ripped-up trousers, he just looked sort of childlike and pathetic.

"And do what?" I asked. "John's going to be in surgery for most of the night. No point in staying here."

"I don't mind waiting here all night."

"Well, I do. And the doctor said rest, right? Kind of difficult to rest in these hard chairs."

My phone buzzed again.

_Already did. You._

Seriously? I was really going to have to do this? It was nearly midnight. I was going to be stuck with Holmes until at least 10 am, if I went by when the injury occurred.

**You owe me.**

I jammed the phone into my pocket and looked up to find Holmes watching me. His gaze skittered away as soon as our eyes met. He had obviously deduced who I had been texting and why.

"Let's go!" I ordered him again, frustrated and a little embarrassed at being caught out by him.

His lips pressed together and he looked down the hallway toward where they had taken John, then back at me. Dithering. The confident, stubborn expression dropped, and just for a second he looked uncertain, frightened. Like a lost puppy. Even I couldn't kick a puppy.

"I'll bring you back in the morning. Ok?" I said in a softer tone, and turned to go. This time he followed me.

As soon as we got in the squad car, he started undoing the Velcro on the splint.

"Hey, what are you doing? The doctor said to keep it on."

""I don't want to. It's not comfortable." He eased the splint off and tossed it onto the seat.

"You need to leave it on so your wrist heals properly."

"Why do you care if it heals properly? It's my wrist."

I shrugged and shook my head. "You're right. Why should I care?" I turned left out of the car park. Not much traffic at this time of night, thankfully. The less time I was trapped in a car with him the better.

"Baker Street is to the right."

"I know that. We're stopping by my place first. I need to feed Joh—er, feed my pet."

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Holmes watching me curiously. I didn't dare look at him. The tips of my ears were heating up, but mercifully they were hidden under my hair.

"You named your pet John?"

"Um, yeah." I concentrated very hard on making a right-hand turn and studiously avoided his gaze.

"What sort of pet? No—let me guess." His eyes narrowed for a moment, then he started in, talking quickly. "Not a cat or dog or you would have said so. No fur on you, so not a hamster or guinea pig." He leaned in a little closer and sniffed me. Ugh. "Not a turtle or snake. Iguana, is it?" Except he said 'Iguaner." I rolled my eyes.

"Wrong."

"What then? Something small. A large pet wouldn't fit in your flat." (How did he know how big my flat was?) "Not furry. Not a frog. Some sort of bird? Parakeet?"

I decided to go ahead and tell him just to get him to shut up. "Hedgehog," I said flatly.

He snorted and leaned his head back awkwardly against the headrest, which was set too low for him. "Suits you."

"How so?"

"Prickly."

"Ha! That's rich, coming from Mr. Porcupine himself."

His lip twisted upward slightly into an almost-smile. "Why did you name him John?"

"It's John-John, actually. Um—he's small, but tougher than he looks. He's cuddly. He even kind of looks like John. Just put him in a little striped jumper. . ."

"You think John is cuddly?" He sounded incredulous.

"What? Isn't he?"

Holmes shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I've never tried it."

Now it was my turn to sound incredulous. "You mean you two aren't. . . ?"

"Not you too?! John says half of London probably thinks we're shagging."

"But you're not?"

"No!"

"Ok, ok. Sorry." I couldn't help but grin. "Simon keeps asking me if I'm shagging you. He's the suspicious sort."

Holmes' face was a complete blank. "Simon?"

"Anderson! It's his first name! You didn't know?"

He shook his head dismissively. "Why would I want to know that?"

"Oh, I dunno, so you can have conversations like this?"

"But I don't WANT to have conversations like this."

I actually laughed out loud at that one. So typical Holmes. "Ok, what's my first name then?"

"Erm—it starts with an S"*

"That's the easy part."

He thought for a minute. "Sylvia? No. Shelly?"

I snickered as I pulled up to the curb in front of my flat and double-parked.

"Aren't you going to tell me?"

"No." I put on the handbrake and turned the flashing lights on. "You figure it out."

Before I got out of the car, I leaned over to adjust the headrest on his seat. His shoulders tensed, but relaxed as soon as he figured out what I was doing. What did he think, I was going to kiss him or something?

"Why did you do that?" he snapped.

"It's better, right?"

He leaned his head back against the headrest, which was obviously more comfortable now. "Yes."

I shrugged. "That's why."

I hustled inside, fed John-John, and gathered up a few things to take with me. By the time I got back to the car, Holmes was asleep with his head against the headrest. Asleep? Or comatose? I couldn't be too careful.

"Oy! Wake up!"

His answer sounded sleepy but coherent. "Leave me alone."

"I need to make sure you're sleeping and not comatose. I'm _monitoring_, remember?"

He snorted. "Satisfied?"

"Not yet. Who's the Prime Minister?"

"I honestly have no idea. And that's not down to the head injury."

"You don't know who the Prime Minister is?"

"It's unimportant," he replied in an impatient tone.

"That's the Sherlock Holmes we all know and love. All right, how about the atomic mass of Beryllium?

"You wouldn't even know if my answer was correct."

"Come on. Chemistry was the only class in high school that I didn't skip on a regular basis. "

"9.012182"

"That was—quite specific. All right, I'm satisfied you're as lucid as you ever are."

"Damned with faint praise," he muttered, leaning his head back and closing his eyes again.

* * *

*All right, I know he knows what her first name is, because he uses it in Study in Pink. I like it better this way.


	5. Doing the math

Warning: again, with the potty-mouth. Consider yourself warned.

* * *

Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler

Ch 5: Doing the Math

* * *

When we got to Baker Street, Holmes roused himself long enough to get out of the car and up to the front door under his own steam. I had a brief flash of hope that Mrs. Hudson would come out and take over, but her lights remained firmly off and she didn't emerge.

"Where's your key?"

"Coat pocket," he mumbled, but made no effort to fetch it. I sighed and dug in his pockets, then fumbled with the keys until I found the right one to open the door. He did great work of holding up the wall while I awkwardly unlocked the door, with one hand holding onto his arm to keep him upright.

Once inside, I was about to lead him to his bedroom, but then I took a good look at him in the light. His face and hands were still covered in blood and grit. Dr. Cordella did a fine job with the stitches, but she was shite at cleaning up after herself.

"All right, bathroom."

He frowned at me and didn't move.

"You're covered in blood. Don't you want to wash it off?"

A small shrug. "I don't care."

"Well, let's clean you up anyway." It shouldn't have bothered me, but it did, mainly because most of it was John's blood, and it made my stomach hurt to think about how that blood got there.

I towed him down the short hallway to the bathroom, closed the seat and lid to the bog (Men!), sat him on it, and started scrounging for soap and a washcloth. After a moment I gave up on the search, wet a corner of the handtowel that was hanging, scrunched and crooked, on the rack, and began cleaning him up, none too gently, starting with his scarfed up hands.

Holmes stared vacantly over my shoulder at a vague spot on the wall and never flinched, even when I scrubbed hard at the scrape on his cheek, digging out the tiny bits of sand and gravel. Next I wiped the blood out of his fringe as best I could, but it wasn't working too well. His hair was still crunchy with flakes of reddish-brown.

I folded my arms and studied him for a moment, weighing my options. I could shove him in the shower and get him clean that way, but there was too much of a chance he would fall down and need my help. Or I could put him to bed with blood in his hair. Since his face looked somewhat better (well, at least cleaner—the removal of the blood had only made the bruises more obvious), and he didn't care, I decided on the latter. He could do a better job himself in the morning when he was a little more coherent.

"All right, good enough. Up."

I maneuvered him out the doorway. As we headed down the hall, he stumbled and bumped into me hard. I would have fallen had his right hand not shot out and grabbed my arm to keep me on my feet. Good thing his reflexes were still working, even with the concussion. He walked under his own power into his bedroom and then just stood there, like an automaton waiting for further orders.

"Holmes, you ok?"

"Yes, just tired and my head hurts. Stop yelling at me."

"I'm not yelling." I eyed his torn trousers, which were stiff with dried blood. "Ok, trousers off."

"I can do it."

He tried to unbutton the trousers, but with his broken wrist (and no splint, of course), he couldn't quite get a proper hold on the button. I rolled my eyes and did it for him, then turned my back so he could strip them off and get into bed.

As I was walking out of his bedroom, he mumbled something. I crossed back over to the bed. "What?"

"Sally."

"Yes?"

"Your first name is Sally."

"Oh. Yeah, that's right. Gold star."

In the sitting room, I dropped onto the sofa, which was more comfortable than it looked, despite the sagging springs in the middle. I briefly considered changing into the pajamas I had packed, but quickly decided it was too much trouble. I was too tired, and the night was going to be too short to make it worth my while.

I started emptying my pockets. Keys hit the coffee table, along with my wallet and phone. No badge. I patted my other jacket pocket, then the trouser pockets. Where the hell. . .?

I jumped up off the sofa and yanked open the door to Holmes' room. "Hand it over," I demanded.

His right arm appeared from under the duvet, with my badge held loosely in his fingers. I snatched it from his hand and stomped back toward the door.

"Do you want your lip balm too?" came his voice from somewhere in the covers.

"You cheeky bastard." I pulled back the blanket and pried my lip balm out of his palm, then tossed the covers back over his head and marched out, furious.

A second later I marched back in. "Do you have John's mobile as well?"

There was a pause before his voice came, muffled, sleepily, from under the mess of blankets. "Yes. And you're not getting it back."

"Fine with me." And I stomped out again.

* * *

When my alarm went off at two in the morning, it took me a minute to figure out where I was and why. Oh, yeah, I had to "monitor" Holmes. AKA wake him up and ask him questions that he probably wouldn't know the answer to even if he weren't concussed.

I staggered to his bedroom, clutching the Union Jack pillow against my stomach. He had kicked most of the blankets off in the night and was lying on his side, hands tucked under his pillow. So peaceful. Was there something wrong with me that I took a sick pleasure in disturbing that peace?

"Holmes, wake up!" I said from the doorway. He didn't stir. I winged the Union Jack cushion at him, aiming for his shoulder, but instead it hit him in the head. Oops.

His reaction caught me by surprise. He instantly curled into a ball, arms thrown up convulsively to protect his head. "I'm sorry!" he cried hoarsely. Oh. I stared numbly at him. I may not be the World's only Consulting Detective, but even I could do the math on that one. Multiple healed fractures + traumatized reaction to sudden awakening = authority figure who drags you out of bed at night to beat you to a bloody pulp.

It only took a second for him to pull himself together, lower his arms and uncurl with a deep breath. "I'm alive, Donovan. May I go back to sleep now?" he said drily, as if he hadn't just had a near-panic attack from being hit with a pillow.

"Yeah, ok, sorry," I mumbled and slunk out.

After I dropped back onto the sofa and closed my eyes, an uncomfortable thought occurred to me: if he were my kid, I might be tempted to hit him too.

When I finally fell back asleep, I had a dream where John died and left Holmes to me in his will. The man who read the will was very tall and thin, with long greasy hair and an angry face. After reading the will, he stomped over to a chair in the corner, where a very small boy sat with his back to me; I could see only a mass of curly black hair atop a thin, corded neck. The man picked up the boy by the armpits, feet dangling in black dress shoes, and held him out to me. I took him the same way, his back still to me. There was a curl at the nape of his neck, and below that were bruises, four purple ovals like grapes on one side, one on the other. Fingermarks. I turned the boy around at arms' length, and his face was Holmes in miniature, but covered in purple and blue bruises and streaked with tears. I just held him dangling there and stared at him, having no idea what to do.

And then he started screaming.

Only it wasn't him screaming, I realized as I jerked awake. It was my alarm going off, time to wake him up again. I fumbled for my phone and frowned at it. Why did my alarm have a picture of Lestrade on it? No, not the alarm, the phone was ringing. 4:10 am. If Lestrade was calling now, it could only be bad news. I slid my thumb across the screen and held the phone up to my ear.

"Yeah?" I said, instantly alert.

"He made it through surgery," Lestrade said without greeting. "Just barely. He coded three times on the table."

"Jesus," I breathed, wrapping an arm around my suddenly clenching stomach.

"He's in a coma. It's still touch and go." Lestrade's voice hitched. "Can you—can you bring Sherlock back to Bart's? He might have to say goodbye."

"Yeah." I rubbed at my eyes. "Yeah, I'll bring him down. See you soon."

* * *

TBC. . .


	6. On being Small and Defenceless

Sally Donovan, Freak Wrangler

Ch 6: On being small and defenceless

* * *

I turned around to find Holmes standing in the doorway of his room, dressed only in his boxers and scrubs top, clutching his injured left wrist in his right hand. His eyes were wide and frightened, breathing shaky.

"He made it through surgery but it's still touch and go."

"What are we waiting for?" he said roughly, taking a step toward the door.

"You might want to put some trousers on," I responded evenly. He looked down at himself, then disappeared back into his bedroom. When he reappeared less than a minute later, he was wearing a clean pair of trousers with the scrubs top, feet jammed into untied shoes.

He waited by the door, rocking back and forth impatiently, while I tied my own shoes, and was off like a shot the second I finished, with me running along behind hoping he didn't fall on his still unsteady legs.

At the first stoplight, I studied him out of the corner of my eye. He was staring out the windscreen, eyebrows drawn together, knee jiggling anxiously.

"I'm sorry I threw a pillow at you," I blurted out.

"Did you? I don't remember," he said with a casual flip of his hand. A little too casual. He was lying. I knew it, and he knew I knew it.

"Your reaction—I know what that means."

No response.

"I've worked with enough abused kids to know what that means," I pressed on recklessly.

He sighed. "Is there any way we can avoid having this conversation?"

I just stared at him. He sighed again. "All right, fine. You've got questions."

The light changed before I could respond, and as I was putting the car into gear, he responded for me, interrogating himself, talking very quickly.

"Who was it? My father. How often? Whenever he'd had a few too many, so pretty much every night. When did it start? He broke my arm for the first time when I was four, because I was. . . chewing on my shirtsleeve. What did your mother do? Nothing, she was too busy being an Imaginary Invalid. Were you ever put into care? No, because my brother convinced me to lie to the doctors. Not that anyone would have believed me. My father was a powerful man. No one wanted to believe that he would beat his son. Did he beat your brother too? Not as far as I know. I made a much better target. Why? Because I'm obnoxious and infuriating. I know you think that too. Wouldn't you like to take a swing at me from time to time? Break my wrist? Lock me in a closet to get me to shut up? I know you would if I were small and defenceless."

When he paused for a breath, I interrupted. "Your father locked you in a closet?"

"No, that was my brother, Mycroft. He was attempting to shut me up so I wouldn't attract the attention of dear old dad. Didn't work, by the way. He always found me. That wrist behind the back thing was his favorite stress position. I saw you looking at the x-rays. You weren't sure what you were seeing, but you were suspicious."

"Wrong."

Holmes' brow furrowed. "I think I know my own childhood," he shot back indignantly.

"No. Wrong, I knew exactly what I was seeing on the x-rays, because mine look the same."

That shut him up for a second. "Oh, umm. . . my apologies."

I shrugged. "Not your fault, is it? I'm not interested in getting into a pissing contest about our shitty childhoods."

"Fine. Good. Heard enough then?"

"Not quite. Tell me about the ribs."

"The ribs?"

"Three broken ribs? How did that happen?"

There was a long pause. I had almost decided to retract my question, because if he didn't want to talk about, maybe I didn't want to know, when he finally spoke in a small voice. "I was eleven."

"What happened?"

"My father was. . . angry because I wouldn't eat. His way of making me eat was to plug my nose, and when I opened my mouth, he would shovel the food in. If I choked or gagged, I'd get hit."

Oh God. I knew Holmes didn't eat very much, because I had heard John grumble about it, but I hadn't realized he had been beaten for it. I wondered if John knew. Probably not. Hearing Holmes describe it in that small voice made me sort of want to punch someone, preferably Holmes Senior. I had a feeling John would have reacted the same, and probably followed it up with action. I controlled myself by gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

He continued softly. "This time I vomited. All over my father's shoes. He hit me in the face and knocked me to the floor. I should have kept my mouth shut, I know that now of course, but I had to do something to—to change the balance of power in the relationship. I hated being powerless. So I told him I knew he was having an affair, and how I knew. He—he didn't take it well. He stomped on my back and broke my ribs."

He settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. I thought the info-dump was over**, **but after a minute he continued. "Mycroft was away at school, so Mum sent me to hospital with Rose, our housekeeper. She took me to St. Barts and Dr. Cordella. Mycroft always took me to St. Anthony's. Dr. Cordella knew instantly what had happened, of course. It's hard to miss a size 13 footprint on a boy's back."

"What did she do?" It was hard to imagine the Dr. Cordella I knew being cowed by Holmes Senior, no matter how powerful he may have been, but maybe things were different 25 years ago.

"She called up my mum and convinced her to send me away to school. She—uh—she saved me, without humiliating my family. From then on, I always went to her when I needed help."

He opened his eyes and squinted at me. "I told you rather more than I intended. Blame it on the head injury. Any chance you can . . . forget all of that?"

"Not likely. But I can promise you I won't spread it around. Will that work?"

A small shrug. "I suppose I haven't any choice, do I? And I won't spread it around that you have a hedgehog named John."

Smug bastard. "It's John-John," I insisted.

* * *

When we got to the hospital, Lestrade was waiting outside the front door in the gray pre-dawn, file folder in one hand and a cigarette in the other. As soon as he saw me, he quickly dropped the cigarette and crushed it under foot. As if he thought maybe I wouldn't have noticed. He reeked of smoke; there was no way I could have missed it, even if I hadn't seen the cigarette in his hand. But I wasn't going to say anything about it. I understood the stress he was under. Hell, I was even tempted to ask him for a light, and I hadn't smoked in almost ten years.

"Did you—ah—tell him what I said?" Lestrade asked me quietly.

"Yeah. He knows."

Lestrade escorted us straight up to John's room on the third floor, and gave a nod to the guards posted outside his door. They stepped aside to let us enter, then closed again behind us like a curtain.

John was lying in the bed looking small and pale, attached to wires and tubes, surrounded by machines that all whooshed and whirred and beeped. His face was puffy from retained water, which I knew that meant his kidneys were not functioning properly. My stomach did a flip-flop at the sight.

Holmes, who had been keeping pace with Lestrade all the way to the room, suddenly hung back at the door. I turned around, about to tell him to get his arse in here, and saw an unexpected look of panic on his face. Putting my hand on his back, I gave him a gentle push forward. "Go on."

His eyes, which had been staring intently at John, changed to focus on me, but not with the scowl of annoyance I was expecting. He seemed to be looking for reassurance. From me? Really?

"It's all right to touch him," was the best I could come up with.

Squaring his shoulders, Holmes stepped up next to the bed, his hand fumbling for John's through the wires and tubes. I caught Lestrade's arm and jerked my head towards the door. He nodded and followed me out, leaving Holmes alone with John.

In the hallway, Lestrade sagged against the wall, scrubbing at his weary face with his palm. "Christ, Sally, I really thought he was going to die. He still might."

"What did the doctor say?"

"They want to do some tests to check his brain activity. Something about. . . cranial nerves? I don't know."

"Like—he might have brain damage? Or do they think he might be . . . brain dead?"

Lestrade just gave me an exhausted shrug. "Damned if I know. God I hope he makes it. If he dies it will tear Sherlock apart."

"How's the search going?" I asked, nodding at the file.

"We have a suspect in custody based on the description you emailed to me. I need Sherlock to look at a photo line-up, just to make sure we have the right man. Is he—tracking any better today?"

"Oh, yeah. He still claims to have a head injury, but he was well enough to nick my badge from my pocket last night."

Lestrade's lip twisted in amusement. "Picked your pocket, eh? Consider it a sign of affection. He picks my pocket every other week."

"I don't think it's a sign of affection, Greg."

At that point a doctor walked up to John's door, trailed by an entourage of young-looking interns in freshly-starched lab coats. Lestrade hustled over and I followed.

"Hey, Dr. Cuthbert." The two men shook hands. "This is Sgt. Sally Donovan."

Dr Cuthbert shook my hand distractedly. "We're just going to do the cranial nerve tests now. If you'll wait in the waiting room, we should have some results in about a half hour."

"Ah, well, he's got a visitor just now. Might not like to be—um—asked to leave."

Dr. Cuthbert's eyebrows went up. "We need to do the tests now, I'm afraid," he said firmly, and swept through the door, waving for his flock of interns to follow him. Arrogant sod.

"I'll go in with you then, shall I?" Lestrade called after him, shooting me an anxious look.

I decided I would stay put in the hallway. Trying to separate Holmes from John was not a job I wanted to get involved in. Not in the slightest. Although it might serve Dr. Cuthbert right to get taken down a peg by Sherlock Holmes, master of the insult.

A minute later I heard raised voices, first Holmes, then Dr. Cuthbert, and then Lestrade towed Holmes out. "Come on, Sherlock, let the doctors do their work."

"I don't see why I can't observe," Holmes said petulantly. "A competent doctor should welcome scrutiny."

"Sherlock, you might want to shut up now."

"Why? If he truly is competent, then he shouldn't mind me watching the tests."

"He asked us to leave, so we leave! Got it?"

Holmes huffed in response.

"Ok, I have some pictures to show you." Lestrade headed for the chairs, waving the file folder like bait.

Holmes' eyes narrowed. "Have you got a suspect in custody?" He caught up with Lestrade in one stride, hand out for the folder, which Lestrade held just out of reach.

"Just look at the pictures, all right?"

"Where did you find him? Did you search the chop shop on Wren and Gough?"

"We looked into it, but the place checks out. It's a legitimate business."

To my surprise, Holmes dropped it. I was expecting him to reel off how he had deduced it was a chop shop, but he just shrugged and plucked the file folder from Lestrade's hand. From where I was standing, I could see the pictures, six of them, all young men with short blond hair. Number three clearly had a mole under his left eye, just like Holmes' description.

Holmes gave the photos a cursory glance, snapped the folder shut, and handed it back to Lestrade. "I don't recognize any of them."

"You barely looked!" I exclaimed.

"I looked as much as I needed to. It wasn't any of them."

I glared at Lestrade behind Holmes' back. The Freak definitely knew more than he was telling. Why wouldn't he make the ID? Head injury or not, he should have recognized that mole.

"All right, Sally, don't worry about it," Lestrade said soothingly. I wanted to shake him. "If Sherlock says he's not there, then he's not there. We'll keep looking." Lestrade tucked the folder back under his arm and turned to go.

"Oh, hang on a minute." I dug in my pocket and tossed Lestrade the keys to his patrol car. "It's in the lot." He waved at me as he walked off down the hall. I watched him go for a minute, then pulled out my phone and sent him a text.

**Number 3 matches Holmes' description.**

When I turned around, Holmes was watching Lestrade's receding back with a sad expression. What was that all about?

"Come on, Holmes, we're blocking the aisle. Let's wait in chairs."

* * *

TBC. . .


	7. Origami Frogs

Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler

Chapter 7: Origami frogs

* * *

The small waiting room on the third floor only had four chairs. Two were already filled with a mum and a kid who looked about ten. He had sandy hair and a striped jumper, and was cradling a broken left arm in a cast. His lip and cheek sported purple-green bruises. His mum sat next to him with a pinched expression on her narrow face.

I sat down beside the kid, a low side table between us, and gave him a small smile. He just looked back at me solemnly. Holmes flopped down in the chair on the other side of me, leaned forward with his right elbow on his knee, chin in hand. I wanted to pull out my phone, but the way Holmes was sitting, he would be able to see the screen, and I didn't exactly want him to read any text I might get from Lestrade.

So I was trapped between a sad-eyed, beat-up kid on one side, and a sad-eyed, beat-up Holmes on the other, and nothing to do. After a few minutes, it got to be too much. I went over to the nurse's station and scrounged some paper from their printer when they weren't looking.

Sitting back down, I started folding a piece of paper into an origami frog. Holmes didn't turn his head, but I could tell he was watching me out of the corner of his eye. When the frog was done, I set it on the side table and pushed down on its bum to make it hop. The boy smiled shyly.

Holmes reached over me and took a piece of paper. "Do it again," he demanded.

Ok, fine. I made another one, and Holmes copied each fold, deftly despite his injured wrist. When he was done, he went over and sat on his heels in front of the table like a kid. He carefully set his frog down and pushed down on the back like I had, but it didn't hop. He shot me a questioning glance, picked up the frog and turned it over in his hand.

I could see that the legs weren't folded properly. There needed to be several thicknesses of paper all lined up exactly to create the tension for the spring, but his wasn't precise enough. I took the frog from his hand, refolded the legs, and set it back down. This time it hopped, but he was still frowning. He picked it up again, did something complicated that I couldn't really see, and set it down again. This time, when he pushed it down, it hopped up twice as high.

He turned a surprisingly adorable half-grin on me, and I couldn't help but smile back. How did he do that? Still grinning, he carefully aimed his frog at the kid. When he released it, it hopped up and landed right in the kid's lap. Then the kid was grinning too as he jumped up and knelt next to Holmes, and the two of them started hopping frogs all over the table.

The mom's pinched face relaxed a little. "Thank you," she mouthed to me, and I nodded back to her. I could read the cares of the world in the lines on her face.

A few minutes later the insufferable Dr. Cuthbert emerged from John's room. Before I could even react, Holmes was already on his feet and headed for him, frogs abandoned on the table. I hustled after and stepped between the two of them before Holmes could restart the argument Lestrade had interrupted before.

"Ah, Sergeant. . ."

"Donovan," I supplied helpfully. I could feel Holmes behind me, like a taut bowstring. Down, big guy. "Have you got any information for us?"

"Well, I need to speak to next of kin."

"I'm his next of kin," Holmes said from behind me.

Dr. Cuthbert's eyebrow went up. "And you are. . .?"

"Sherlock Holmes—"

"He's his partner," I interrupted quickly, with my arms folded, daring either the doc or Holmes to contradict me.

After a couple of tense seconds, the doctor gave a careless shrug. "Very well." He started in on his results, talking too quickly for me to follow, given that I didn't have a clue of what half the words even meant. "We tested the oculomotor nerve and found minimal pupilary response to light. The glossopharyngeal and vagus nerves were assessed with suctioning, and pharyngeal reflex was present but delayed. Caloric testing resulted in nystagmus, but again delayed and minimal."

I shot a glance at Holmes to see if he was as lost as I was, but his face just showed intense concentration. I wondered if I could convince him to explain the results to me later, because at this point I didn't even know what the tests were supposed to tell us.

The doctor continued, something about more testing of the Vagus nerve, but I had sort of tuned him out by that point. After a couple more minutes, the doctor finished his mumbo-jumbo and headed off down the corridor, interns in tow like long white coattails, before I could ask him to summarize his results. Was John even alive or not?

I rounded on Holmes, but he was headed back toward the waiting room, head bent over his phone. "Hey," I called. "Wait a minute. What did all that mean?"

"Shut up."

"What are you doing?"

He waved his hand at me. "Looking all that shit up. So shut up and let me think."

Oh. So he didn't understand it either. Fine. I stood outside John's door for a minute, arguing with myself about whether I should go in. Damn, it was hard to see John like that, broken and unresponsive. John was supposed to grin and crack jokes. Drink tea while wearing crazy jumpers. Gesture with his fork and knife while eating until the person next to him had to duck out of the way to avoid getting impaled.

Finally I made up my mind to go in. I made myself cross to the bed and pick up John's swollen hand quickly, before I lost my nerve. So many tubes and wires keeping him breathing, hydrated, monitoring heart rate, oxygen levels, temperature, blood pressure. . . And for what? Maybe even though his body was alive, his brain was really dead and he would never get better. The thought yanked tears from my bleary eyes.

Suddenly I heard raised voices in the hallway: Holmes, and then an unfamiliar woman's voice. Shit. Had the Freak gotten himself into another fight already?

I dropped John's hand and hurried back out into the hall. Holmes stood with his back to the door, shoulders tense, facing off with a petite woman with spiky blond hair and tight jeans.

"You're not allowed in," Holmes was saying in a stubborn tone.

"I'm his sister!" the woman retorted. "Who the hell are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes, and I know he doesn't want you here."

"Oh, you're that flatmate John is always going on about," she said derisively. "Just because you're shagging my brother doesn't give you the right to tell me I can't see him!"

Holmes' eyes narrowed. Oh, shit. I could see the storm coming, but I was powerless to stop it. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the kid in the waiting area watching us wide-eyed.

"Holmes. . ." I warned, but he cut me off.

"Back together with Clara, are you?" he said in a voice that was quiet and dangerous. "But still got your bit on the side. Does Clara know about her?"

"Wh—what?"

"Holmes, that's enough-" But he wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to me.

"And you've told everyone you've quit drinking. You've got them all fooled. They don't know about your secret stash behind the bookshelf in the bedroom."

"How do you know about all this? Are you stalking me? You freak!"

Holmes' voice rose. "I don't have to stalk you! It's written all over you. The smell of alcohol is ingrained in your clothes and hair. I'm not the freak, you are!" That last bit was shouted hoarsely.

"Fuck off!"

All right, that was quite enough. I grabbed hold of Holmes' injured wrist and dug my thumb in where I knew the break was. His gasp told me I had found the right spot.

"John's room is just there, Ma'am. As we have no legal justification for keeping you out—" I heard Holmes draw in a breath, so I squeezed his wrist to shut him up—"you may go on in."

She spun on her heel and headed into the room, and I turned to Holmes. It was obvious by his face, and the way he was trying to pull away from my grasp on his wrist, that he was still spoiling for a fight. I put my hand on his chest and pressed firmly against his bruised ribs, backing him up toward the waiting room. He squirmed but I didn't let go.

"Don't do this here. Don't start a row," I warned quietly

"They don't get on. He wouldn't want her here," he hissed.

"Do you think John would want this? Do you think he would want you to start a row with his sister while he's lying there dy—" I couldn't finish that sentence. It was like a giant hand had grabbed hold of my heart and was yanking it out of my chest.

Holmes' chin went up. "Maybe he'll wake up and tell me to shut up," his voice cracked and he turned his head away, lips pressed firmly together. He had stopped struggling, so I loosened my grip on his wrist, but didn't release it yet.

I turned toward the lift, still holding his wrist. "Come on, let's go."

"Go where?"

"Home. Shower, food, nap." It was nearly 9 am, and my belly was grumbling about the lack of breakfast.

"I'm not hungry or tired." His voice was petulant, like a toddler.

I leaned in and sniffed him, let my lip curl up. "But you could definitely use a shower." I was lying—he still smelled good, like sandalwood and grapefruit. How did he still manage to smell good after the night we'd had? His eyebrows lowered, but he followed me out without further argument.

* * *

TBC. . . (while you're waiting, you might as well leave a review. . .)


	8. Shopping in my Fridge

Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler

Ch 8: Shopping in my fridge

* * *

In front of the hospital, I tried to hail a taxi, but they all just ignored me. Then Holmes stuck up his hand, and a black cab immediately screeched to a halt by the curb. Well, fuck me.

As soon as we got in the cab, Holmes wedged himself against the far door, face set in a scowl. He was cradling his injured left wrist in his right hand. I could tell I had hurt him, but at that point, I honestly didn't care. He deserved a little pain.

"I'm right. You know I am," I said.

"You—" he paused, then started again in his dangerous voice. "You are a college drop-out who will never advance beyond the rank of sergeant because you are unable to pass the Detective's exam. At the age of 33, you live alone and have no prospects of long-term relationships because you are carrying on a pointless affair with a married man. You collect books on Italy and Spain, but you have never traveled anywhere because you don't feel capable of getting around on your own. You have tried to learn Italian but found it beyond your abilities. You lament the fact that you have no friends, but do nothing to—"

"Shut up, Freak!" My blood was boiling. How dare he! "Don't talk to me about having no friends! You have exactly one friend, and you damn near killed him last night!"

"I didn't shoot John!"

"You may not have pulled the trigger, but it was your fault! You go haring off after some crazy theory, assuming that he has your back. But who's got his back?"

"I do!"

"No, you don't! That's the problem! You barely even look back to see if he's keeping up with you! All you care about is solving the puzzle. You don't care who gets hurt along the way!"

Holmes had his hand over his face now, and his breathing sounded a little off—too fast, harsh.

"Damn it, Holmes! I knew he would eventually end up in a body bag because of you! He trusted you! God knows why, but he counted on you, and you let him-Are you _crying_?!"

"Piss off," he said quietly. He scrubbed at his cheek with the heel of his hand. Oh, God, I made him cry. Oh, shit.

All my righteous anger vanished in a heartbeat. Taking a deep breath I mumbled, "Sorry." Ugh. Guilt. Damn my Catholic upbringing.

I leaned forward and opened the window to talk to the cabby. "Change of plans. We're stopping by another address first." I gave him my address and then leaned back in my seat. When I looked over at Holmes, he was watching me from behind his hand, curious.

"We're picking up John-John." My little hedgehog was an expert at making people feel better. Yet another trait he had in common with the real John.

* * *

At my flat I went shopping in my fridge for a few other things I thought I might need: eggs, bacon, mushrooms, beans, tomatoes, fruit, milk, bread, strawberry jam. I hadn't looked in the fridge at Baker Street, but going by past experience on "drugs busts", I was pretty sure all it contained were a few stray body parts, certainly not the ingredients of a balanced breakfast.

I popped John-John in his travel crate and hurried back to the cab, which was idling by the curb. As soon I set the crate on the seat, I could see Holmes eyeing it. He was obviously curious, but I wasn't going to satisfy that curiosity yet. I was planning to use it as incentive to get him to shower and eat breakfast.

When we got to Baker Street, Holmes immediately ejected from the car and headed up to the door, leaving me to carry the bag of groceries and John-John's cage.

"Don't worry, I've got it," I muttered under my breath. "No need to help."

At least he unlocked the door this time, and didn't even close it in my face, although his expression said he wanted to. He was still cradling his broken wrist, and his face was pale.

I set down my burdens and fetched the white bag of pain meds from the side table. "Do you want some ibuprofen?" I didn't think he would admit his wrist hurt, but it was obvious from the way he was standing, and how he was holding his arm, that he was still in pain.

He stared at the meds for a minute, not meeting my eye, then said "yes," quietly, through gritted teeth.

I shook out four Ibuprofen into my hand and held them out to him. "Hang on, I'll get you some water."

"No need." He tossed the handful of pills into his mouth and dry-swallowed them, then headed for the bathroom without another word; a moment later I heard the shower running. Well, that was easier than expected.

Grabbing the bag of groceries, I went into the kitchen and started rummaging around in the cupboards for the utensils I needed. Ugh, nothing was clean, so I had to wash dishes first, laying out paper towels on the countertop to dry them because I couldn't find a single clean dishtowel. Good grief.

When I finally had enough dishes, I started making omelets. I added mushrooms liberally to mine, but left them off of Holmes'. He struck me as a fussy eater, and every fussy eater I knew hated mushrooms.

When I came out with two plates loaded with omelets, fruit, and toast, I found Holmes sitting, not on the sofa, but on the floor in front of the sofa, next to the coffee table with his long legs stretched out in front of him, playing with his mobile. He was wearing his usual fancy trousers with a t-shirt and a silky dressing gown, and his hair was still wet from the shower. His left wrist was encased in the splint. Finally. He didn't look up, even when I set the plate next to him on the coffee table.

"Eat."

"What?"

I gestured to his plate with my fork. "Eat!"

"You made me an omelet?"

"No, I made myself an omelet, and there was enough left over for you."

He eyed me for a minute, as if trying to deduce whether I was serious or not. "That was sarcasm," I clarified.

"I know." He picked up his fork and took a careful bite.

"You could say Thank you."

"Thank you," he said obediently, around the mouthful of omelet. He swallowed the bite and loaded his fork with another one.

I nodded, satisfied. "That's good." I sat down on the sofa and started in on my own omelet. I was hungry enough that it was gone in less than five minutes, but when I looked back at Holmes, he had put his fork down and was playing with his phone again, the screen angled away just enough so I couldn't see what he was doing. His head was bent over, shoulders hunched. He may not have been crying anymore, but his whole body looked sad.

"Did you figure out what the doctor's report meant?"

His head popped up. "Huh?"

"What the doctor said. Did you figure out what it meant?"

"Oh. It's—um—inconclusive. The results, not my research. They're not declaring him. . . I mean, they can't say that he's—that he's dead. Not yet. They'll have to repeat the tests later." He flicked the screen on his phone off and on, then off again, and dropped it on the table. He rubbed at his scuffed knuckles without looking up.

I searched my brain for some comforting words, but everything I could think of was likely to start another argument, so I kept my mouth shut. Instead I scooted Holmes' plate out of the way, fetched John-John's cage and put it on the coffee table. As soon as I opened the door, John-John waddled into my hand, snuffling and purring. Holmes' head had come up and he was watching with open curiosity.

I crouched next to Holmes. "Hold out your hands," I directed.

"Why?"

"So you can hold him, you idiot."

"Oh!" His hands went out, stiffly, and I carefully placed John-John in them. Holmes held perfectly still as if frozen.

"It's scientifically impossible to be sad whilst holding a hedgehog," I said with a smile. Holmes still didn't move. He was frowning at John-John like he didn't know what to do. "It's ok to touch him. He won't break. Tougher than he looks, remember?"

"Hm, how do I. . .?"

"The belly is the softest. See?" I took John-John and turned him over. Holmes touched his belly with a tentative finger, and was rewarded with a soft whistling sound.

"Oh, is that. . . good?"

"Yes, that means he likes it. Go on." I put John-John back in Holmes' hand, and this time he carefully stroked his back with his fingertips. "There you go."

I sat back down on the sofa and watched Holmes, who was too absorbed in watching John-John to even notice. More specifically, I watched the back of Holmes' neck, which was thin and corded, with a curl at the nape, just like in my nightmare. There were bruises on the sides of his neck, fingermarks as big as apricots. I could see one on the right side but only two on the left. Carefully I hooked my finger in the collar of his t-shirt and pulled it down a bit until I spotted two more fingermarks on the left. Gently I brushed my thumb over the bruises. His neck looked very vulnerable, and I was suddenly feeling a bit protective.

Holmes' head was down and he wasn't complaining about me touching him. In fact, he hadn't even looked up. From my view point sitting almost behind him, I could only see a small part of his face, but that was enough to know that he still looked sad, even with a hedgehog in his hands. Even though I knew it was not entirely my fault, I felt responsible for that sad face.

There was a stack of papers on the end of the coffee table: bills, with "paid" written in John's handwriting under the total. Surely they wouldn't mind if I put their old gas bill to better use. So I started making origami, because it always made me feel better. Maybe it would have the same effect on him.

First I made a sitting cat with its tail curled into a question mark. From the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes flick his phone on and off again, and then he went back to stroking John-John. When I sat the cat on the coffee table next to Holmes, he looked up at it uncertainly. Once I had started in on making the next animal, he carefully transferred John-John to his shoulder and picked up the origami cat, turning it over in his hands and inspecting it solemnly.

I finished the second animal, an otter holding a fish, and set it on the table, and he picked up that one as well and inspected it the same way. Then he set it carefully next to the cat. His phone flicked on and off again.

As soon as I finished the third animal, a hedgehog with spikes, he flicked his phone on again and said, "I'm all right, Sally. You don't have to babysit me anymore."

"Huh?"

He showed me his phone. 10:01 am. "It's been twelve hours. I won't drop dead."

"Good, because that would be hard to explain to John."

"I'm just going to take a nap, then I'll go back to the hospital."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I know you want to go. You keep looking at the door."

He was right, of course. My eyelids were getting heavy and I was seriously looking forward to reuniting with my bed. And it had been twelve hours. My duties were technically over. An hour ago I would have been running for the door, tripping over myself to get away from him. Now, I felt a strange reluctance to leave him alone.

"I'll be fine. I can take care of myself."

"Ok, I'll see you at the hospital later?"

He nodded, already turning back to his phone. Dismissed. Stifling a sigh, I picked up John-John off his shoulder and put him back in his crate, then started gathering up my things. The leftover eggs and other ingredients I put in the fridge (no body parts this time, mercifully) in case he got hungry later.

* * *

When I got home, I put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth and headed for bed, relieved to be quit of my babysitting job and finally able to think about something, anything besides Holmes. Although I had to admit that the previous 12 hours hadn't been entirely objectionable. I had gotten to see a side of Holmes I hadn't known existed. If only John had been. . . oh, God, don't think about that.

Five seconds after my head hit the pillow, the pieces finally slotted together. SHIT! That LYING son of a bitch! While I had been letting him hold my hedgehog and thinking gooey thoughts about the back of his neck, he had been plotting to get rid of me so he could carry out his plan. SHIT!

* * *

TBC. . .


	9. stopping a murder

Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler

Ch 9: stopping a murder

* * *

I was out of bed in a flash, scrambling back into my clothes which were lying in a crumpled pile by the bed, fumbling for my phone on the nightstand.

**Chop shop NOW**. I texted to Lestrade on my way out the door.

When I was halfway to the garage for my car, he responded. _It's a legit business. Tell Holmes to drop it._

Shit! He didn't understand. I called him while I ran, swearing to myself the whole time the phone was ringing. As soon as he picked up, I barked, "Do you still have your suspect in custody?"

"No, I had to cut him loose, about an hour ago. Why?"

"Shit! Meet me at the chop shop. Bring back up. Holmes is going to kill them!"

"What? Aren't you with him?"

"No! He said he was fine! He said I could go home! That lying sack of shit!"

Then he was swearing too. "I'll meet you there!"

* * *

I screeched around the corner onto Gough Street and slammed on the brakes in front of Sergio's Auto Rebuild. Peeling paint, weeds growing up through the sidewalk, gave off an air of neglect. The type of place you'd drive right by and never notice. A "Closed" sign hung crookedly in the window, but the door was standing partway open.

Lestrade's car was nowhere in sight, so I had beaten him there. I slammed my car into park and drew my revolver, put my back against the doorframe of the shop. I was pretty sure Holmes was in there, and I was also pretty sure he wouldn't go after these guys unarmed.

I heard them before I saw them. A very young voice, lightly accented, quavering with fear. "Please—please don't," and then "I didn't mean to! I'm sorry!"

"Holmes?" I called out. No response except the sound of panicked breathing. "Holmes, it's Donovan. I'm coming in."

I held my gun in the air and stepped into the door frame. The tableau in front of me made my blood run cold. Holmes standing, face impassive, jaw set, gun in his outstretched right hand. Kneeling a few feet away, a kid, only a teenager, with close-cropped blond hair. I couldn't see his face from this angle, but I was sure there was a mole under his eye. The kid's hands were on his head and his shoulders were shaking.

I took a deep breath and stepped around the kid. "Holmes," I said evenly. "Give me the gun."

He looked right through me. "Donovan, get out of the way."

"You can't do this."

"I have to," he replied calmly. "He shot John."

"No, please. For John's sake, you can't do this." I took a cautious step closer. "You shoot him in cold blood, you go to prison. You can't be there for John."

Holmes' face twisted for a second, then settled back into the impassive mask, his breathing harsh but carefully even. I turned my head to check on the kid. His sleeve had slipped back, and I saw livid purple bruises around his wrist, just like Holmes. He had bruises on his neck too. Fingermarks. "Holmes, look at him," I said gently. "Look at how young he is." Another cautious step.

Holmes blinked at me, and then squinted at the kid, eyes narrowed. I recognized that expression. Deducing.

Scuffling sounds outside alerted me that Lestrade had arrived. I heard his voice ordering his men to spread out. Holmes' eyes went to the door and his face hardened. Shit. I needed his attention on me. I almost had him.

"Holmes, look at his wrist and neck. He's an abused kid, just like you and me." I raised my voice a little, talking over my shoulder to the kid. "It was your father, wasn't it? He killed those men and made you help."

I could hear the kid's stifled sobs behind me. He didn't have to answer. I knew the truth, and I was sure Holmes knew it too.

"No, he shot John," Holmes said stubbornly.

Behind me I heard footsteps, then Lestrade's voice. "Stay back, everyone." I kept my eyes firmly locked with Holmes', willing Lestrade to stay put, willing him to understand that I could do this. Just one more step and I would be in range.

"Sherlock, you know he's not a killer. He's just an abused kid. Please." I slowly held out my right hand and put it over his. "It's ok," I said quietly. The second I touched him, his control crumbled, and I suddenly saw past the impervious exterior he was trying to maintain, past the Freak, to the lonely, hurt little boy, terrified of losing his only friend. I may have found the Freak frustrating and infuriating, but I couldn't help but care about that little boy.

Holmes was crying now, tears sliding down his face and dripping off his chin, and I could feel the tears burning at my eyes too. " I need John," he whispered shakily.

"Sherlock, it's ok." Keeping my eyes locked on his, I took hold of the gun and felt his grip loosen. Gently I pulled the gun from his grasp and held it out blindly behind me.

I felt Lestrade take the gun from my hand, and then he shouted "Clear!" There was a clink of handcuffs and then a voice of one of the uniforms telling the kid he was under arrest. I kept my eyes on Holmes. His knees buckled; he sank down to sit against the wall, and I had no choice but to hit my knees next to him, as he still had a deathgrip on my hand.

Lestrade stepped around me and went to Holmes, knelt beside him and wrapped strong arms around his trembling shoulders. Holmes leaned into Lestrade's embrace, sobbing, one hand fisted in Lestrade's jacket, the other still clinging tightly to mine.

Lestrade's walkie squawked. "Boss. . .you've got to come look at this. Back room."

This time, when Lestrade caught my eye, questioning, I nodded. He quickly pushed Holmes into my arms and stood, already barking orders to the uniforms.

Instead of pulling away, which I had been expecting, Holmes turned his tear-stained face into my shoulder. Without any conscious direction from me, my hand came up and rested protectively on the back of his vulnerable neck. I could feel his irregular breathing, his shoulders jerking with each inhalation. My throat was tight and my face was wet.

In the midst of all the noise and chaos, I suddenly felt my mobile vibrate in my jacket pocket. Moving slowly, I removed my hand from the back of Holmes' neck and pulled the phone out just far enough to see the caller ID.

**St. Bart's Hosp.**

I went completely still and just stared at the phone. If the hospital was calling, it was either very good news or very bad news, and I was terrified to find out which. I felt Holmes pull away a little, then he went completely still as well. Without even looking at him, I knew he had seen who the call was from.

I put the phone up to my ear and said quietly, "Sally Donovan."

"Ms. Donovan, this is Jennifer Watkins. I'm a nurse in the Intensive Care Unit at St. Bart's Hospital. I'm calling because you are listed as an emergency contact for John Watson."

* * *

TBC. . .

Now it's your turn to write a review. . .


	10. Act Casual

**I took some flak from reviewers for leaving you with yet another cliff-hanger. Don't worry, all will be resolved in this, the final chapter.**

**To the Guest reviewer who asked if I was actually British instead of American as I claim, thank you. I'm flattered. I just watch a lot of British TV. And it helps to have a degree in linguistics. :-)**

**And for RockingtheRedhead, who wondered why Donovan was an emergency contact for John: she filled out the paperwork herself (Remember? Back in chapter 3) and added her own name in the emergency contact spot.**

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Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler

Ch 10: Act casual

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I could barely breathe. My heart was in my throat, thumping madly, blocking my airway. "Yes? Is he. . ." dead? Oh, God, please don't say he's dead. I tightened my grip on Holmes' hand. I couldn't meet his eye, although I knew he was watching me closely, looking for any sign.

"Dr. Watson is regaining consciousness. He is asking for . . . Sherlock? That's his next of kin, correct? We've been trying to contact him but he hasn't answered his phone."

Suddenly the fist that had been clenching my trachea released, and I could breathe again. "Yes, Sherlock. He's right here." Now I finally met Holmes' eye, and I couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of my mouth. Holmes' bruised face lit up with hope. "Tell John he'll be right down."

As soon as I had hung up the phone, I was struck by a sudden fear: Was Holmes in trouble? He _had_ just held a man at gunpoint and threatened to kill him. I looked around quickly. A sergeant was searching the desk in the office of the autoshop, while a couple of uniforms stomped around trampling evidence. Lestrade was nowhere in sight. No one was paying the slightest bit of attention to us.

Holmes was on his feet in one smooth motion, and then I saw his hand, held out to me. I gawped up at him in surprise.

"Coming?" He said with that half-smile.

"You want me to?"

The smile widened. "Of course. You're my ride."

Yeah, that sounded more like it. I put my hand in his and let him haul me to my feet, and we casually strolled out. None of my fellow officers even glanced at us. Clever bunch.

* * *

Holmes could move quickly when he wanted to, and I was hard-pressed to keep up with him through the halls of St Barts. Just outside the door to John's room, I caught up with him, grabbed his wrist and squeezed, not hard enough to hurt; just enough to get his attention. When he half-turned in surprise and took a step backward. I stepped in, trapping him against the doorframe, invading his personal space. Tipping my head up I said quietly into his ear, "Don't think I've forgotten that you lied to me."

His eyes widened a fraction and his breath caught. Deer in the headlights.

"But we can talk about that later." I released his wrist. He let out the breath he had been holding when I stepped back and let him go ahead of me into the room.

Once he was past the threshhold, I felt a sudden pang of anxiety. I didn't belong in John's hospital room, not now that he was awake. Holmes certainly didn't want me there. Probably John wouldn't either. I hesitated outside the door, and finally backed away, hand groping in my pocket for my phone, my security blanket.

A second later, Holmes stuck his head out. "Come on!" he said impatiently. Again I stared at him open-mouthed. "Oh, stop gaping and come in already."

Really? Ok, then.

John was still looking pale and exhausted, but at least the tube in his throat had been replaced by a cannula in his nose, some of the wires were gone, and his eyes were open, eyes which lit up as soon as he saw Holmes.

"Sherlock," he croaked, reaching out for Holmes' hand. "All right?"

"Yeah." Holmes' voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes, I'm good." He latched onto John's searching hand and held it tightly.

"Thought they were. . . gonna kill you."

"It'd take more than a few kicks to do me in." Although Holmes' back was to me, I could hear the smile in his voice. John's eyes were full of tears, but he was grinning back weakly.

Even though Holmes had invited me in, I decided this moment was a bit too intimate for me. I had never done well with emotional scenes. Quietly I backed out the door and retreated to the hall to give them some privacy, and to give myself time to text Lestrade about John.

**John's awake. We're at Barts.**

Lestrade's response came quickly: a photo of a vintage Corvette and two other high-end sports cars in various stages of disassembly. The caption read, _Tell Holmes he was right._

* * *

About five minutes later, an abashed-looking Holmes came out rubbing the back of his neck.

"He'd—um—he'd like to talk to you."

I stuffed my phone into my pocket and hauled myself off the wall where I had been leaning. "He would?"

"Yeah. Don't ask me why."

I narrowed my eyes at him but he just gazed back at me innocently. Why would John want to talk to me? What had Holmes told him? Still suspicious, I took a step toward the door, when I felt Holmes' hand on my arm.

"Donovan."

"What?"

"Thank you."

Huh? "For what?"

"For—for taking me home. For fixing me breakfast. For not—for not killing me with your bare hands, I suppose."

I gave him a confused look. He was actually grateful for all that? I had been under the impression that I was annoying him with my feeble attempts to take care of him. "Oh. Well, then, you're welcome."

He released my arm with a nod. "Go on." And then his hand was on my back, pushing me into John's room, the same way I had pushed him toward John earlier that morning. I wondered if he were conscious of the similarity. Probably.

I entered John's room cautiously, noticing that Holmes didn't follow me in. What was up? Shit, he hadn't told John about John-John, had he? He wouldn't! He promised! Oh, God, this was going to be hard to explain.

John's bed had been propped up a bit, and there was now a cup of water, with a straw sticking jauntily out of the top, on the tray next to his bed. So Sherlock had been taking care of him, obviously. The man was full of surprises. John's face was still a little swollen, especially around the jaw, but at least he didn't look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man anymore. It made me grin to see him looking so much better.

He grinned back. "Hey, Sally," he rasped.

"Hey yourself. You gave us a bit of a scare."

"Sorry 'bout that."

"Holmes said you . . . wanted to see me?"

"I wanted to say thanks, because he probably won't."

"Oh, er, actually. . .he already did." I looked around, mainly to avoid making eye contact. I silently rehearsed my rebuttal: The hedgehog's name is John-John. I didn't name it after you, exactly. Well, I did, but. . .Hey! My eyes lit on the origami I had made for Holmes earlier, lined up on the little table next to John's bed.

John saw me looking. "Sherlock brought those to me. He seems to think the hedgehog. . . looks like me." John paused to cough, and fumbled for the cup of water on the tray. I held the straw up to his lips while he took a drink. "He says you made them for him," he continued once he had swallowed.

"Oh, uh, yeah."

"They're pretty good."

"Um, thanks. Did he. . . tell you anything else?"

"That you made him breakfast. And drove him around. Thank you, really. I know what a. . . pain in the arse he can be, especially when he's hurting."

"Not a problem, mate." I was starting to feel something that might have been relief. Holmes really hadn't told my secret. Was it possible I could trust him after all?

* * *

For the next week, I had the same nightmare every night. John continued to die, even though he was getting better every day and would probably be released from the hospital soon. The man with the long stringy hair always read out the will in exactly the same way, and it always ended with me holding little Holmes at arms' length, with no idea of what to do with him.

Finally, on the seventh night of having the dream, I made my decision. This time, instead of letting the boy dangle, I pulled him in and sat him on my hip. His skinny arms went around my neck and his head rested on my shoulder, his wet face against my skin. Then I walked off with him.

I still have the dream occasionally. But now I just go grab the boy off the chair and walk out with him before the man can even read out the will. I know how it's going to end, anyway. Might as well cut the crap and get to it. I guess I'm resigned to my fate as Freak-Wrangler.

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**Did you like the ending? I considered (briefly) killing John, but I decided I liked him too much to let him die. :-)**

**If you liked it (or even if you didn't), I'd love to read your review!**


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